I'm lonely. There. I fucking said it: I AM LONELY. Taking a year away from Montreal, albeit a good idea, sucks. Being single again sucks. Meeting new people sucks. I hate "getting to know" people now. Why? Because I hate sugar-coating over the reason why I'm here in the first place!( Read more...Collapse )

The dude picked up the note, looked around, pulled out his books, and studied for a while! Studying? How could he study after my bold attempt to snare him with my feminine wiles? Then, get this, he fucking left! No acknowledgement whatsoever. Who is this retard? You don't give the "come hither" eyes and then act all aloof and disinterested. My limited knowledge of the opposite sex tells me that boys like it when girls make the first move; it takes the pressure off or something. I make the first move and what happens? It blows up like an atom bomb in my face. And I was dressed to impress, too. Damn.I got the shut-down real bad. Now I know how Kevin, on "The Wonder Years", felt every weekday afternoon at 4:00 on Fox 64. If I had a heart, it would break a little right now.

I am such an idiot. I just saw a really cute boy in the library. We made eye contact SEVERAL times. I get up to go to the bathroom. He walks towards me. What do I do? I run! I fucking ran, and to make matters worse, I tripped over my own stupid feet. Why am I such a walking (no, running) catastrophe? Well, on top of that, I just did something very bold. Something I can scarcely beleive myself!

I wrote him a note...

Yeah, so what if I'm acting like I'm in seventh grade? Anyway, the note said, "What's in your CD player. Sincerely, Workstation # 2. God, I hope I didn't mis-spell anything. Wait, is that how you spell mis-spell? God, what if I left in on the wrong seat. Teeh hee hee.He;s looking arounf. i think he's ignoring the note! what the fuck? this is live coverage, folks. I am writing this as it happens (hence the poor spelling and punctuation). Still, I can't beleive what a gutsy gesture that was. What is even more unbeleivable is that I actually did it.

what? what's this? this boy has ignored my gesture!

I'll write an update in 5 or so minutes. If he does come over, I don't want him to see me typing about him. That would creep anyone out.

I totally pulled a John Favreau from Swingers move last night. So I met this artist/musician guy who was very handsome and just enough of an ass hole to make me fall madly in love with him. Then what do I do? I blow it like a stripper in the champagne room.

First off, I called him the day after we hung out. Strike one.

Next, I hung up without leaving a message on his CALLER ID cell phone. Strike two.

Finally, I call a half-hour later and leave this 5 minute long rambling message about how I know that's it's too soon to call, and that he will probably be freaked out, but that I have the house to myself, and a car in which to pick him up, and a bunch of new records I just bought with my paycheck that day, and that if he had other plans, then we'd hang out some other time, but that I'd like to see him if possible. Strike three.

What do Hurricane Gloria and my New Year's Eve date have in common? Both were huge messy disasters.Imagine meeting a good-looking Venezuelan hipster at a club. Then imagine meeting him for a date the next night and finding out he is a 36 year-old with bad hair and a yin-yang necklace. I am beginning to think that when he said 36, he really meant 43. To make things worse, he made some comment about Demi Moore and the kid from "That 70's Show" in reference to the two of us. Now I've got the creeps real bad and have turned off the ringer to my phone in the highly likely event that he calls. I don't know if this is cowardly or mean, but I am really at a loss over what to do.Why does this shit always happen to ME???Why is it always the pervs and pedophiles and never the rockstars and french film stars? Why ,God, why?

I am so pissed off. My dog Phoebe just shit all over the backseat and then ground it into the carpet like a fine diarrhea paste. Yours truly had to scrub it all off with a sponge and her bare hands, as there were no rubber gloves to be found anywhere. Anyone here know what it is like to get dog shit under your fingernails? Better still, anyone know how hard it is to get that dog shit OUT from under your fingernails? I am not pleased at the prospect of spending the next day smelling like this. People are going to walk by and think "Hey, that girl smells like dog shit. Let's beat her up and teach her a lesson". Or something like that.I'm feeling a little out of it this morning. I hit an all-time low last night when I broke plans with my brother to stay home and get drunk by myself and listen to country records. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I did enjoy myself immensely, but I am not convinced that this is a healthy way to spend a Sunday evening. It is somewhat permissible if you are a rock star or a tortured artist. I am neither of these things...not even close, actually.I think I should take this opportunity to take it easy on the drink for a little while. It will definately keep me from eating ham and cheese sandwiches at 1:00 in the morning. The raiding the fridge after a night of drinking thing is something I also need to get a handle on. No one loves a fat drunk insomniac.

I have officially entered Lonely-ville, population 1, by way of Loser-town. I joined nerve.com.I've heard in some cities, like say New York, that this sort of thing is cool and that everyone does it. In fact, I know several people who have had tremendous luck with this dating strategy. Providence is not New York, for all you people under the misconception that it's hip, trendy, or otherwise cool. In light of this, you begin to understand why all of these single Rhode Islanders have turned to the internet for dating help...they are total fucking losers. Unfortunately, as of two days ago, I am no better.In my defense, I have few friends here. The friends I do have here are into going to shitty bars and hob-nobbing with even shittier bands*. Therefore, I have no way of meeting anyone up my proverbial alley. I can't even get people to commit to going to a show with me on a Friday night. I thought being single was supposed to be awesome, people. So far, it sucks. No one to laugh at my retarded jokes, no one to talk about bands I love and bands I hate, no one to fool around with when I come home from the bar a little too drunk. These are key issues in my life right now.I am hopeful that when I do my "study away" semester here that I will meet some cool people. Or, at least people I can sit at the lunch table with. I have little or no expectations. Chances are, if you don't like Dave Matthews Band, and you have a car in which to take me places, you are my new best friend.

I got the sweetest new boots. They are white, high-heeled, and I love them. I feel like a modern version of Nancy Sinatra, with a better singing voice.I wore them to the office Christmas party, where I finally got to meet my boss, the Senator (imagine working for a person for four months and never even meeting them!). They were a total hit...as in, people were totally hitting on me. I had the time of my life, Patrick Swayze-style. In fact, you might say I went "Swayze Crayze", and the next morning, I was feeling no pain.So kids, it's official: I am back on the market.Gentlemen, please take a number.

You know those few bands you hate so much that you vow never ever to see them, even if the tickets were free or someone paid you to come along?Well, that band for me is Phish, and my vow was broken the other night. Let this story be a lesson that you should always keep your word. Always.

My friend, we'll call her "Jane"*, is quasi dating one of the lame dudes in Phish. The other night she invited, oh let's see..."Jill" and I to come see them for free and get all access passes that would have made any vegan cream his patchwork pants.

At first I was like "abso-fucking-lutely not". But I really didn't have anything else to do, it involved a field trip to Boston, my social life has been nil since moving back, and it meant I was probably going to be able to drink Crystale from a golden Burkenstock clog all night. So, I shamefully made my way to the Fleet Center and tried to salvage what little pride I had left. I mean, how awful could it be, right?

As I predicted, it sucked. In fact, it was one of the worst nights of my life. My friends decided to disappear for over an hour, leaving me to watch the show alone, surrounded by 20,000 of Phish's dearest and smelliest fans and no booze to make it remotely interesting. They came back and acted really flaky for the rest of the night. I found out later that my ride had been snorting coke backstage (how fucking cliche)and could barely stand up. At this point, she had already lost her coat, her purse, and her ticket. I was starting to get a little pissed. I hate being the sober mother of the crew.

Things got better for about five minutes when I got to go backstage and drink a bottle of the band's fine wine and devour every last one of their chicken fingers with that honey mustard sauce I enjoy so much. I took an enormous fancy chocolate bar and stuffed it in my purse for later and grabbed some wine for the road. I watched the rest of the show. They botched up a Velvet Underground song, and played this dumb little home video of them being all young and crunchy in Vermont, right when they formed the band I guess. (snore.). When I met the keyboardist, whose real name is Page, I said "So, you guys are into the Velvet Underground...", to which he responded "Oh, Thank you so much!".Then I got into a huge dramafest with "Jane", who had lost her heavily intoxicated roommate, the one who had found out that afternoon that her kid sister is 8 mos. pregnant and hasn't informed her mom yet. Jane started balling everywhere and Kate rushed to her side, completely forgetting about me and the getting home before work situation that had formed. We got into a huge fight and some dumb hippie girl interrupted us to ask if we could please move somewhere else so that we wouldn't wreck the show for her by giving off bad vibes. I shit you not, folks.Everyone in my party pretty much thought I was a heartless ungrateful bitch with a poor attitude. I am certainly NOT heartless. That's for sure. I was getting these "How can you think only of yourself at a time like this?". Please!Don't expect me to feel badly for a bunch of drunk, coked up groupies who can't handle the mess they created when they decided to leave their brains at home for the evening. I don't care if they are my oldest and dearest friends. That's just plain retarded. Maybe it's time to clean house, if you know what I mean.The car ride home was silent, save for me cursing myself under my breath for having left the house at all that day.

Funny thing happened on Halloween. Went out to a bar with Kate (because there was nowhere else to go), dressed as the only thing I could have possibly pulled off this year; a pirate. Aside from not having a cutlass, or an eye patch, or any of those other really cliché accessories that say "I'm gonna make this really easy to figure out", I looked like a pretty fucking beleivable pirate. Yeah, right down to the not smelling so great, the bad attitude, the excessive grog-drinking, and foul language.Well, appharently I needed to spell out my costume to the retards at this bar, because not one, not two, but THREE people asked me if I was going as Kelly Osbourne. Kate isn't allowed to pick what bar we go to anymore.

So, you decide for yourself. Behind these doors there is one picture of Kelly Osbourne, and one very similar, yet very different picture of ME. Who's who? Winner gets me right hand, matey.

Kate and I went out a-drinkin' last night. We started out at the Topside, a towny dive bar with a naked mermaid on the sign. We saw about five kids from our Catholic grammar school totally smashed and beligerent. In very little time, we too became smashed and beligerent. I think I was trying to make up for all that time I gave up drinking to help Mike to deal with his alcohol problem. Had I only known that Mike was "dealing" with his alcohol problem by drinking behind my back, well...I digress. Back to the sweet partying.The only thing lacking in last night's fun was the music. I could have sworn that the band they got was a Dave Matthwes cover band. And what's worse, they went over really well with everyone. There was even a fucking electric violin! How's a body supposed to smash bottles on the floor and fall down the stairs to that? Last time I was there they had this awesome Bob Seeger-type outfit playing, who attracted all the right people (if you know what I mean).

Rachel and I went out for our weekly record spree ritual today. I picked up "Drinkin'", the first in a four-album Merle Haggard set. Now, I just need to get "Cheatin'", "Hurtin'", and "Prison", and my break-up soundtrack will be complete. On the back of the CD, it says "Collect all four and enjoy the pain". Thank you, I will.

I'm updating my journal at work. I've never done this before. I'm so scared that some press secretary or whoever is going to look over my shoulder and see the word "fuck" and know that I wrote it. It's so dangerous and exciting...I think I'm getting turned on. Yep, I am.

No one reads this fucking thing EVER. None of my friends are hip to surfing the world wide web yet...they're still into talking "face to face". What losers. The only real friends you've got are the ones you've never actually met in person, but know really well because you've chatted with them all night long and sometimes on weekends via the interweb. Like my ex-roommate's good friend, "Lina from Iceland", whose existence has yet to be proven beyond a doubt. I don't have any "real" friends yet. My people friends are a bunch of fuckers, but they're all I've got at the moment.

It's been some time since I've written in this thing. I've been too busy getting my heart broken and ruining my credit. Coming back to R.I. sure isn't all I thought it would be, i.e. a good idea. I don't want to go back to Montreal. I don't want to stay here. That leaves only one place left to go: Memphis. I've already been stockpiling my Tammy, Johnny, and Loretta in preparation for the pilgrimage. Now all I need is some money and a car. Any and all are invited.

I went to the Barrington Library the other day. While Mike picked up almost 20 educational and PBS dvd's, I headed up to the children's stacks where I found dozens of titles I loved when I was just a novice reader. Most of them were by Tomie DePaola, one of my favortie authors of all time. Being that my card still has almost $30 on it from high school late fines, I borrowed my mom's and got out as many storybooks as I could carry. I have been going through all of them one by one, thinking I could do this. And maybe even better than some of these people. I think being a children's author is one of the best, most important jobs of all time. I can't draw for crap, but that's where Mike would come in. We could get our seaside cottage in Maine, buy a pony and some sheep, and spend our days making books. Oh god, it sounds exactly like what I want my life to be right now. (sigh...)

I went to see the Expos vs. the Brewers last night. For a team that supposedly sucks by most standards, they've won every game I've seen, and last night there was a crowd of 30,000 at the Stade Olympique. Well, at least I can say that I saw them once upon a time.

Highlights of last night's game:

Bought $16 dollar tickets for $10.Americans sitting in front of me talking the entire game about how they should figure out how to make poutine for the games back home.The Brewers lost.My face showed up on the "Jumbo Cam".Learned that "Circuit" = "Home run" in french.Mike bought me an Expos batting helmet that I wore all night, and for most of this morning.Paid $4.00 for a hot-dog that gave me the worst diarrhea I've ever had in my life.